Fool's Errand
by Uncle Charlie
Summary: Napoleon and Illya are assigned to track down a missing journalist, but why does something feel so wrong about this set up.  Warning - silliness ahead


Napoleon Solo glanced at the blur of motion that he initially caught out of the corner of his eye. Sure enough, it was his partner, jacket off, tie askew, his hair looking as if it hadn't seen a comb any time recently.

"Tough day, partner?" He himself had been instructing a class of new recruits in the delicate art of interrogation.

"The next time Connors gets the bright idea of re-certifying all the Section Two and Three agents on their CPR skills remind me to be out of the country." He coughed and winced. "I haven't talked this much since Survival School."

"Just for the record, I wasn't the one who nominated you as a trainer." Napoleon paused in front of Waverly's office. He hadn't exactly cried tears of despair when the loudspeaker crackled on and told him to report to Waverly's office. This probably meant Illya and he were headed out on an assignment and he was inwardly a little delighted.

The door slid open and they entered. There was a stranger already seated at the circular table, several folders spread out before him. As he turned to face them, Napoleon winced. It was obvious the man hadn't slept or shaved for awhile. No one could look that haggard on purpose.

"Ah, Mr. Swanson, these young men are two of my best agents. If anyone can find your man, it will be they."

Waverly's praise immediately put Napoleon on edge. Waverly didn't hand out compliments like that and not insist upon a high price tag.

"This is Mr. Solo and his partner, Illya Kuryakin."

"Kuryakin? You're the Russian?" Swanson shook Napoleon's hand and then Illya's.

"Yes."

"Good, we need someone like you."

"Mr. Swanson is the editor in chief for _Life_ magazine.He recently had one of his reporters go missing in your land, Mr. Kuryakin."

"Sir?"

Waverly dimmed the lights and looked at the wall screen. "Horatio Rhee recently decided to do a series on the Bratva." A photo of a kind looking, laughing man filled the screen.

Illya's breath caught. "The Brotherhood? That is a fool's errand, sir. The Lubyanka's cells can't even hold them. In general, not a group to casually dally with."

"Well, Rhee had an in. One of the members wanted out and he was willing to talk in exchange for asylum here. Rhee was going in to rescue him."

"I… ah… don't mean to make this sound less heroic, but wouldn't that be a task best left to the professionals?" Napoleon let a smile play on his lips.

"Horatio isn't just a crack journalist. He's been decorated with a bronze star, a dozen different medals, and just about every humanitarian award there is including the Nobel Peace Prize." Swanson looked from the photo to the files and back. "You see, the problem is not that he couldn't get the guy out. He did, but in doing it he's just disappeared from the surface of the planet."

"I think you realistically have to draw the conclusion, however reluctantly, that your journalist is no longer of this world."

"That's what brought me here. I need proof." Swanson looked from one agent to the other. "Mr. Waverly tells me you're just the two to get it."

Napoleon looked uncomfortably over at his partner and smiled hesitantly. "Why do I have a bad feeling about this?"

Napoleon carefully nursed the glass of vodka and surreptitiously watched the various patrons of the bar. His beard itched, and not in a good way, he would literally kill for a bath and he was beginning to suspect that horsey smell was him. Of course, they had spent the night in a stable. His hand strayed from his beard to his leg and he wondered if horses had fleas.

Illya was having a lively discussion with one of his fellow countrymen, hands flying, voices rising and falling. Napoleon kept an eye out for anyone who showed more than a casual interest in the discussion. Suddenly, Illya slapped the man on the shoulder and he relaxed. Whatever his partner had discovered, the conversation ended on an up note.

He looked up tiredly as Illya staggered back to the table several minutes later. The man was barely staying upright, but still managed to keep a tight grip on the bottle of vodka he was swigging from. Only Napoleon knew it was water.

"Something?" Napoleon murmured, then louder in Russian. "_Вы свиньи, то почему бы вам не поделиться с друзьями?_" (You pig, why don't you share with friends?).

"_Если я что-нибудь, я бы!"_(If I had any, I would!). Illya collapsed into the chair and laughed, passing over the bottle. "If I hear that joker described as good, sweet or kind one more time, I am going to vomit." He kept his voice low. "According to the guy I just spoke with, a man matching our missing journalist's description has taken up residence in a bar two streets over."

"Finally. Nothing personal Illya, but I've about had my share of your country's hospitality."

"It's a much nicer country when you aren't sleeping in cow stalls." Illya scratched his beard and continued up to his head. "I take back every mean thing I ever said about barbers and manicurists."

"On the upside, it was good that we were able to walk right past your mother and she never recognized us."

"She would have collapsed if she'd realized it was us." Illya grinned and took back the bottle from Napoleon. "Shall we go collect out pigeon and get out of here? The Bratva are getting more than a little interested in us."

Napoleon followed Illya's look over to where three men huddled at a corner table and spoke softly amongst themselves. Everyone in the bar steered clear of them, a clear sign that they were not to be trusted or befriended. "Let's do it. The sooner we are on a plane winging our way home, the happier I will be."

"At least _Life_ was good enough to have a plane standing by for our use. " Illya sniffed at his dirty tunic. "I smell like a horse… or is that you?"

"I've been undercover for five months, cut me a little slack here, partner."

"Closer to six and I'm not complaining, Napoleon, just pointing out the obvious."

They both got to their feet, swaying, and lurched their way to the door. The moment they were out of view of the bar, they straightened up and Illya pointed. "That way, I think."

The bar was a little nicer than the ones they'd been haunting for the last few months, listening to the gossip, following one lead after another about a kind and sweet gentleman, a saint among men, generous and caring to everyone he met. It wouldn't seem hard to track this man down, but his benefactors were sparse on details, even when Napoleon and Illya were able to convince them that they weren't working for the KGB or Bratva. This man kindled a strong sense of loyalty and was protected.

Napoleon pointed to a man, small and unimposing, seated at the bar. They looked around before approaching him, just to make sure no one was paying them any more than cursory attention.

As they slid onto the bar stools, the man looked at first one then the other. "Hello, my friends, can I help you?" His voice had the edge of resignation to it, as if ending a long battle.

"Horatio Rhee?"

"Yes, that would be I, although I'm a little tired of him these days. I've been trying to take a little vacation, just enough so I can get out of this blasted country."

"Sadly your reputation has followed you, as have we, across much of the USSR. And always one step behind, I'm afraid. We've been looking for you for a long time." Napoleon slid an id card out of a hidden pocket. "Napoleon Solo, from the U.N.C.L.E. This is my partner, Illya Kuryakin. We've come to escort you home."

"Finally. I wondered when _Life _would send someone for me." He tossed back the rest of his drink. "But I have met some wonderful people here."

"I'm sure you have." Napoleon then smiled, a sly, I'm-going-to-pay-for-this smile. "And may I be the first to say, "Ah sweet Mr. Rhee of _Life_, at last I've found you."

It was to Illya's credit that he waited. Waited as they fought their way clear of the ensuing gun battle with the Bratva and wild ride through the streets of Vladivostok in a stolen vehicle and until they boarded the place for home to punch out his partner for puns rendered.


End file.
